Chapter 4 - The Escalation at the Office
By Tuesday afternoon, the ripples of Sunday morning had turned into a full-scale social war within the small, wealthy suburb outside Columbus where David’s family lived.
I worked as a senior archival conservator at the Ohio Historical Preservation Society, a prestigious non-profit that specialized in restoring nineteenth-century documents, rare books, and historical family archives. It was quiet, meticulous work that required patience, precision, and an absolute respect for the truth of the past—everything Barbara Whitmore lacked.
At 2:00 PM, my assistant, Sarah, knocked gently on my office door.
"Amanda?" Sarah asked, her expression hesitant. "There’s a woman in the lobby. She... well, she’s demanding to speak with the Executive Director, but when I told her Mr. Vance was in a board meeting, she said she was here about you."
My blood ran cold. "Is her name Barbara?"
"Yes," Sarah said, pressing her lips together. "She’s wearing a pearl necklace and looks like she wants to fire everyone in the building."
I took a slow breath, smoothed down my linen blazer, and stood up from my work desk. "I'll handle it."
When I walked into the sunlit marble lobby of the Preservation Society, Barbara was standing near the display cases containing restored Civil War letters. She was impeccably dressed in a camel-hair coat, her hair styled perfectly, holding a sleek leather handbag like a weapon.
Two visitors sitting on the leather sofas were staring at her, uncomfortable with the rigid, furious energy radiating from her frame.
"Barbara," I said, stopping ten feet away from her, keeping my voice low and professional. "What are you doing here?"
Barbara turned slowly. Her face was set in that familiar, icy mask of aristocratic disdain, but if you looked closely at her eyes, you could see the fraying edges of her control.
"I came to speak to your employer, Amanda," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the quiet lobby. "I think the board of an institution dedicated to historical preservation should know that one of their senior conservators uses state databases and private family heirlooms to blackmail citizens."
I stared at her, genuinely stunned by the sheer madness of her accusation.
"Blackmail?" I repeated, stepping closer so the visitors wouldn't hear. "Are you insane, Barbara? You burned a photo album in front of thirty witnesses!"
"You illegally accessed sealed public records from Illinois," she declared loudly, pointing a manicured finger at my chest. "You used your position here to dig up private legal documents regarding my past and brought them into my home to destroy my reputation!"
"I didn't use state databases!" I hissed, my temper finally flaring beneath my professional exterior. "Emma found a hard copy of your divorce decree in your own attic in a cedar chest! You left it there thirty-eight years ago!"
"Lie!" Barbara snapped. "Emma would never go through my things without permission! You manipulated my daughter! You twisted my son! You are a toxic, destructive woman who couldn't stand that David had a loving, respectable mother, so you tried to drag me down to the level of your fractured, tragic past!"
The lobby went dead silent.
Sarah was standing behind the reception desk, her jaw dropped in absolute shock.
Before I could answer—before I could tell this bitter, terrified woman exactly what I thought of her "respectable" life—the heavy oak doors of the boardroom opened at the far end of the hallway.
Our Executive Director, Arthur Vance—a seventy-year-old historian who had known my late husband’s family for twenty years—stepped out into the hallway, followed by three members of the board of directors.
"Is there a problem out here?" Mr. Vance asked, his thick gray eyebrows pulling together as he took in the scene.
Barbara immediately straightened her posture, smoothing her coat, her expression shifting instantly into that practiced, tragic sweetness she used on strangers.
"Mr. Vance," Barbara said, her voice dropping into a soft, tremulous register. "I am Barbara Whitmore. I apologize for the intrusion, but I felt it was my civic duty to inform you that Amanda has been using her access to archival records to harass my family..."
Mr. Vance looked at Barbara. Then he looked at me.
Then, Mr. Vance did something that made Barbara’s sweet expression freeze mid-sentence.
He walked past her, stood beside me, and laid a warm, paternal hand on my shoulder.
"Mrs. Whitmore," Mr. Vance said, his tone as dry as old parchment. "I have known Amanda for twelve years. She preserved the founding charters of this city. She restored the personal diaries of three Ohio governors. And more importantly, I knew James Miller—her late husband—since he was a boy in my Sunday school class."
Barbara blinked, taking a half-step back. "You... you knew him?"
"James Miller was a man of extraordinary character," Mr. Vance said, his voice dropping into a tone of stern, unyielding authority. "And Amanda’s loyalty to his memory, alongside her devotion to your son, is something any decent mother-in-law would consider a blessing. Now, if you do not leave this building immediately, I will have security escort you out, and I will personally call the Chief of Police—who, as you may know, sits on our board."
Barbara’s cheeks burned a deep, mottled red. The mask didn't just crack; it shattered entirely.
May you like
She looked at Mr. Vance, then at the three board members staring at her with cold disapproval, and finally at me.
Without another word, Barbara turned on her heel, her designer heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, and hurried out the glass doors into the afternoon rain.
